December 15, 2007: After exchanging many e-mails, Brian and I finally met in person -- lunch today – the first time we've seen each other since high school graduation in 1965. Will the promise of our e-mails bear fruit? We share so many interests, values, thoughts; two months of on-line conversation have been effortless and wide-ranging.
So there he was in the restaurant in his black cowboy hat, just like the Grand Canyon picture he had sent me. Yum! We talked and talked, and explained to the waitress that we were on our first date after a forty-two year hiatus. What a chick flick!! I shivered clear to my shoes when he kissed me in the parking lot – a kiss that seemed inevitable. So – romance knows no age limits! We agreed we had to see each other again the next day.
December 16, 2007: So on to the second date. Brian picked me up in his white
4-Runner – a wonderfully comfortable, powerful, sure-footed SUV perfect for Montana winter terrain.
“I thought we’d go over to Wilsall and have a beer at the Bank Bar,” Brian said. “The road’s paved now so it’ll be an easy drive. I hope you don‘t mind if I take pictures.”
And off we went, up Bridger Canyon on MT HWY 86 on the east side of the Bridger Mountains. I hadn’t been on this road since 1978; it wasn’t paved then.
The mountains were covered with snow; the sun was out, and it was a beautiful day. We drove past Bridger Bowl, Pass Creek, Fairy Lake, Ross’s Peak – all places I remembered from my childhood.
Ross's Peak, Iconic Peak in the Bridger Range
Back then, an expedition like this took planning and all day. The roads were gravel and rutted and muddy. There were no places to eat. My family often cut our Christmas tree in the Fairy Lake area.
And that brought back a wonderful memory. My mother, sister, and I were on one such expedition when:
“Mom, that bush moved!” I grabbed her arm and pointed to a small spruce tree.
“It’s just the wind,” she said. “Help me with this tree.”
Nervously watching the place where the spruce had moved (I was sure of it!), I grabbed our Christmas tree.
I was ten years old, out with my mother and younger sister on our annual Christmas tree search in the Bridger mountains north of Bozeman, Montana.
We parked the car along the road through the canyon and set out up the ridge. Wonderful deep white snow filled the woods; sometimes Tina and I sank in to our waists as we plowed through the drifts or slipped off buried rocks and logs. We flopped down and made beautiful snow angels until we were covered with snow ourselves. Mother evaluated trees, looking for the one that would grace the corner of our living room. We brushed the snow off the trees so we could see their shapes.
“No, I’d have to put branches in to fill that bare spot. No, that one’s too tall. Let’s try over there.”
Mother guided us to the top of the ridge. Choosing the perfect tree is serious business. By the time we reached the top of the ridge, we were all tired. The snow wasn’t so deep on this side, and we quickly selected a spruce that Mom sawed down. We then decided to head for the Fairy Lake road rather than return through the deep snow. That direction promised an easier, if longer, walk back to the car.
That’s when the bush moved. And another one moved.
“Mom,” I grabbed her arm again. “Look!” This time the bush stood up.
“Ma’am,” said a solider with branches on his helmet, “where did you come from?”
“We came over the ridge,” Mom pointed over her shoulder and gathered Tina and me close to her. “We’re getting our Christmas tree.”
We waited and wondered what in the world we had found! The soldier discussed security with voices on his hand-held radio.
“Just a woman and two kids, I think,” he told them. We had walked into the middle of National Guard winter maneuvers through a supposedly secure perimeter.
“You may proceed,” the soldier and his radio voices decided. “Just stay on the road.”
Very solemnly, we walked, dragging our tree, past jeeps, tents, and soldiers, to the main road.
Back at the car, we could no longer contain our laughter. Mother often took us to the woods, just the three of us camping miles from the road. We had been asked before by forest rangers – “Ma’am, are you and the girls all right?” But we had never managed to breach security at an army camp before!
Now McMansions dot the woods, built by people who live there only a few weeks every year. McMansions that have destroyed elk and deer winter range with their fragments of human hubris. It was a very sad sight, this habitat destruction through human carelessness.
I remembered the mountains and this day reveled in their hugeness, the fierce bareness of steep granite thrusting into the sky. I was discovering, much to my joy, a partner who shared that spiritual connection. Brian took photos at every opportunity. And we discovered that we looked at the world through similar eyes and that we reveled in the natural world.
“What’s that bird?”
“Is that granite or sandstone?”
“Look, deers with big ears!”
“Look. I found this little Forest Service road on the map. Shall we try it?”
It turns out I have a wonderful talent for finding the most remote roads in the emptiest places on the map. And, wonder of wonders, Brian appreciates that and will go out there with me!
Coming into Wilsall, we had our first view of the Crazy Mountains, gleaming white across the Shields River valley.
First View of the Crazy Mountains
And then the charming bar in Wilsall – peanut shells on the floor, friendly folks, and good beer and wine. I’ll confess here that I have never sat at a bar before and had a drink or eaten dinner.
Pass Creek Sky Feather
From Wilsall, we headed south on US HWY 89 to Clyde Park where we turned west on Brackett Creek Road back to the Fairy Lake junction. And on the way we said hello to a man with a grizzly bear on a leash. He has a ranch and keeps animals for the movies. Things have certainly changed since we grew up wild in that country!
Last night, Brian sent me some of these photos from the trip. This relationship promises to be one of a kind!
Louise with photos by Brian. Text and photos copyright GoinMobyle, LLC 2009